


close encounters of the fatherly kind

by s0fthope



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Deviant Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Fluff and Humor, For Science!, Gen, Injury, Mild Blood, Parent Hank Anderson, by proxy hank 9 connor sumo are all family, just overall soft, robot stuffs, sometimes family is ur robot sons and a dog
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-06
Updated: 2019-02-06
Packaged: 2019-10-14 09:28:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17506010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/s0fthope/pseuds/s0fthope
Summary: “did i ever tell you how much you remind me of cole? it’s like i got a second chance i don’t deserve”connor gets a bit hurt, but luckily he's got a guy that can give him a helping hand--literally.





	close encounters of the fatherly kind

**Author's Note:**

> folks, here we are again! i decided not to add this to my running collection here on ao3, but just note that this takes place in the same universe! december of 2039. good ol' snowy detroit! i was banging my own fists like a child thinking about how dad hank was so i just did it myself.

“hank!”

part of him had run a test simulation that told him this would happen hours before they had reached the scene for investigation. the suspect was on foot, armed, no larger than connor himself, but wholly human, and that made him just a bit more unpredictable. really, it was his own fault; he had seen the injured victim-- _ domestic dispute slash battery slash attempted battery with a deadly weapon _ , a broken arm, and he had managed to jab a set of keys into the soft, outer thigh of the suspect--noticed the loose but dark trail of blood. it bled from a major artery. the suspect didn’t get far. the only reason he and hank  had been called to the scene, right here, right now, was because the suspect had been armed, he had fled, and there had been a potential hostage. 

there wasn’t. the kid had managed to wiggle free with a few bruises and run back to his dad minutes before connor had caught up to them. 

but there was the blood trail, less than an hour old, still sticky, and on an injured leg the assailant couldn’t have gone more than a mile, even with his build. the blood loss would be too great. as he had begun to follow the trail, hank had caught up with him, grabbed him by the shoulder.

_ where are  _ you  _ going? _

_ the suspect wouldn’t have gotten far. he has their son, and he’s on one critically damaged leg. forensics can start to secure the core area, but if the suspect is alive, injury and clear witness testimony marks him as the assailant immediately. _

moments later the kid would barrel into hank, knocking them both to the ground, unbeknownst to connor. he had since rounded the corner, the dimming alleyway wet under his feet. he could see the clear path of quickly leaking blood in uneven spurts--the suspect had tried to apply weak pressure but quickly found it to not work as expected. he had estimated about twenty-eight percent blood loss in total out of total blood volume. clearly visible depressions from the weight off the weak leg drew connor to the side of the alleyway, where he saw the suspect, trying to wager and bridge the gap between a fence and the windowsill above it. connor predicted that he might be trying to use the windowsill to cross, or to climb to the roof, but he knew he wouldn’t get that far. what would he do when he had climbed up there? bleed out? call an ambulance? how would that play out for him? wasn’t it useless? connor didn’t run that simulation, something felt too heavy in his chest to do so.

connor could tell it was him, the puncture wound visible to him even in low light conditions, the stress level, the rapid heartbeat, shallow breathing. he clutched in his hand, shaking, a raptor two, a gun connor didn’t even know detroit even sold bullets for. he had supposed there were maybe three bullets in the chamber, just from the relative weight, the bare, loose strain it had on the man.

connor had stopped about two meters away from him. the man turned at the sound of connor’s voice, eyes wide and pupils heavily dilated. 

“mr. benitez? markos benitez? my name is connor, i’m an android officer with the detroit police department.”

markos stared blankly at him, eyebrows drawn tightly together, creases forming between his eyes and beside them as he began to squint. the light was beginning to fail his human eyes, connor could only guess that the symptoms of blood loss were becoming more and more apparent to markos himself: shaky limbs, blurred vision, the sense one got as they came to the verge of unconsciousness. no doubt that would make connor even harder to see, harder to hear, harder to understand. connor repeated himself. then clarified “markos, you’re losing quite a bit of blood. you can come with me, i can get you the medical care you need.”

markos waved the gun at him. “who do you think you are?”

“i’m only trying to help.”

“i’m fine, sir. i’m just trying to get down from here.” 

clearly, markos had heard nothing connor had said. he may have not even had any recollection of the past events, at least currently, or knew where he stood exactly, the confusion all rushing to his head. connor spread his hands in surrender.

“markos, you’ve sustained a critical injury to a major artery, if you’ll allow me to help you,” connor took several steps forward, had tried to keep his voice level and calm and his body language open. blood loss was close to thirty-six percent. maybe there existed more than one wound.

markos had instead panicked. he fired the gun, which let out a staticky bang that reverberated off the closed in buildings of the alleyway. the bullet caught him in the leg, through the front of the calf at an angle--it exited cleanly, but the sensation of the force acting on him alone shot through the left side of his body. he stumbled, tottering to one side before catching himself.

“i can do this by myself.”

connor took another step, right leg feeling like dead weight. markos began to scramble up the side of the building, putting several meters of distance between connor and himself. with a jolt, connor pushed forward, feeling the sensation of thirium seep from the bullet hole in his leg. he scrambled up the side of the dumpster to the low lying shed just as markos began to skirt the apartment wall that met the shed’s tin roof. connor began to pull himself up onto the tin, focused on using the momentum to pull the rest of his torso up and over. markos shot at him again, bullet barely skimming near him. it pinged off the tin roof and into the alley. instead, markos slammed his heel down onto connor’s outstretched hands, grinding down with his weight. connor felt several fingers pop, bending messily to the formation of markos’ shoe. connor swung himself up, at least partially, onto the roof, swiftly knocking into markos, managing to push him off. he stumbled, began to scale the wall with significantly weakened ability. connor could hear his heart ramming in his chest, stress level reaching peaks for his stability. 

again, markos stumbled, eyes falling shut, but backwards, arms flailing comically as he dropped the gun from his hand and into the alley below him. connor was able to grab him, but the shared momentum pulled them from the roof and into the alley.

connor hit the ground first, which pleased and startled him. an audible  _ oof _ escaped him as he did, synthesized breathing stuttering. a moment passed before his vision cleared, fading out from the impact to the back of his skull. he was sure a wire could be loose from more than a three meter fall. his arms were still wrapped around markos as he sat up. markos’ head lolled to one side--connor had a cold feeling pass through him, but a short analysis told him that markos had reached critical blood loss, had hit critical loss of consciousness as he had tried to scale the wall, the stress, combined with the extreme tachycardia--markos had been dead before they hit the ground.

now, connor was stumbling back to hank, who had taken it upon himself to speak to carmelo benitez. he tucked both hands under his arms, shambling forward awkwardly. hank had heard him call, whipped around to see him, hands stuffed into his coat pockets to fend off the winter air.

“connor? what happened?”

“he didn’t make it, hank.”

hank’s eyes went wide as he connor came into the light. he pulled connor’s arms out from under each other, turned his hands over in his own. he knew connor couldn’t discern more than the presence of broken bones, bullet wounds--but the sensation felt like a jolt of pins and needles, and his hands were white and blue, and the dark pants he wore had collected a thick, dark blue stain from his leg.

“jesus, fuck--”

“hank, please--”

“connor, your hands, your fuckin’ leg is oozing--jesus christ!”

connor sheepishly hid his hands once again, pulling a face. 

“it’s nothing a repair kit can’t fix, hank,” he soothed. “i’m alright. but markos...” connor lowered his voice, leaning forward slightly. hank moved forward so that he could zip connor’s jacket up, blocking him from the december air, knowing he had only pulled on the stupid dpd t-shirt he loved so much. a blue pallor brushed across his cheeks, in response to the air and the blood loss.

“markos didn’t make it. i tried to coax him, but he...he bled to death before i could.”

a look of disappointment crossed hank’s face momentarily before he patted connor’s shoulder, glanced over to carmelo for a brief second (who had now begun to talk to another officer on scene, detective yung, hank recalled), and then over to another officer on duty, and back to connor.

“i think we did what we could--and i think lieutenant jeffords can see the need for us to get you home.”

“you think so?”

“do you wanna talk to him?”

“i mean...” again, connor pulled a face, looking almost woosy. hank’s grip on his arm tightened. 

“we’re getting you home, son.”

hank let the boy lean on him as they made their way back to the squad car, his arm fitted around connor’s ribs to support him. he knew he didn’t need that much help to make the short walk to the car, but hank  _ felt _ like he needed to. he opened the passenger side door for him, watched him stretch out his injured leg with no grimace or wince. hank fell into the driver’s seat with a sigh, glancing once at connor, before starting the car and trying to map his way to the precinct. 

connor directed him in a soft voice, one hand working the best it could to pop his fingers back into place--they weren’t necessarily bent at odd angles, but bent in on themselves. he could only feel a sharp discomfort and nothing else. he wanted to assure hank that he felt fine, but doubted that anything would really work.

he instead decided to stay alert until they arrived home.

he waited patiently for hank to open the door for him, fish out their tram cards, make sure they both had all their possessions before locking the car behind them. despite the pallor of connor’s face, with his hands in his pockets, he seemed to be holding himself fine. 

“did you remember your gloves?” he asked, suddenly recalling.

“inside coat pocket.” connor motioned with his arm. “i took them off to analyze the bl--”

“urg, yeah, the blood. i get it.” he chuckled at himself for being so squeamish, saw a smile cross connor’s face.

but hank could see the drained look in his eyes, the disappointment was written all over his face. in the light of the subway, hank could see a batter of small scratches on one side of his face, the loose spin of his LED. either he had trouble in the alley, had fallen, had fought off the guy. hank didn’t feel that it was his place to ask, but did anyway.

“what happened in the alley?”

“he was stuck up on the shop’s storage shed--probably planning to scale to the roof. when i moved to help, he shot me. i tried to break the fall when we went off the shed’s roof after i climbed up there.”

“nothing hurts?”

connor shook his head, fixing hank with a soft look and a sympathetic smile.

“it just feels uncomfortable, i promise.”

he could tell hank didn’t believe him, despite that being the truth. instead, he leaned against him, letting his head slump on hank’s shoulder, the little glowing portions of his coat showing in his reflection on the glass. he ran a quick self diagnostic, kicked himself mentally again. why had he not prepared for this if one of the simulations had been an outcome almost the same?

blood loss remained his major concern as the diagnostic listed down the left side of his vision. he knew there had to be a pouch of thirium at the apartment. next, the nerve receptors in his hands: completely damaged. the reinforced plastic case around the wires and receptors appeared cracked at best, but internally, the wires were too twisted from impact, especially with the pads being so close to the surface level, to be reused. 

he’d be able to go into stasis to dig more and run the situational analysis again. he stayed sure they would have nine in the field once his absence had been properly filed. though little forensic work needed to be done, autopsy and examination of the situation would probably need to be considered, in case carmelo benitez felt as if his family life still rested in the field of danger. connor had no idea who markos benitez had been, what kind of life he had outside of what he had seen tonight. that would be nine’s job. and detective reed’s. but connor knew it would mostly be nine. 

he smiled to himself. 

hank noticed in the glass as their stop was read aloud, a pinging sound echoing throughout the tram. connor picked his head up and blinked several times.

“what’re you smiling about?” hank teased. connor shrugged, raising his eyebrows in unison with his shoulders, a mannerism that hank wasn’t sure where he picked it from. 

“nine having to do the rest of the work while reed takes a nap.”

the exited the train, one after the other, following each other out and up the steps to the top platform. hank scoffed from in front of him, throwing the words over his shoulder.

“i mean, you’re not wrong, but what makes you think your brother hasn’t whipped gavin into shape?”

they passed through the turnstiles, connor pushing at it with his hip until it budged, and hank waited for him, finally able to walk side by side.

“oh, he has,” connor said a-matter-of-factly. “detective reed just likes to sleep unless actively involved.”

hank snorted, throwing his head back to laugh as they exited the subway station, walking the short distance to hank’s apartment from the terminal. connor took it upon himself  to order some new thirium, trying hard to remember if the kit persisted wear and where exactly it lay. hank guided him by his elbow, through a small crowd and across the street. 

“gavin’s not all bad, you know?” hank said as they stopped for a moment, waiting for the crossing symbol. “i think he was afraid of ya, and he was afraid of nine until he got used to workin’ with ‘em.”

connor nodded to himself. “we’re you afraid of me?”

hank shook his head, pulling connor with him across the crosswalk. “nah, i was just in a bad place. you’re a good kid, i wasn’t a good guy to you.”

they stopped in front of the neighborhood complex, hank fishing his keys to let them in the front entrance of the house. more or less running on hank’s navigation, connor followed close behind, hank’s hand around his wrist to make sure he didn’t trail off down the sidewalk. he wouldn’t, but if it made hank comfortable, he didn’t mind. 

“he wasn’t always nice. he’s not nice usually. but he doesn’t hate me for supposedly taking his job anymore. so that’s nice.”

“if he can like nine he can end up liking you.”

after finally reaching the end of the row of houses, hank let connor go. they stood together at the threshold of the house, connor absently watching the sky start to finally lose its color, as hank twisted the doorknob, at last able to open the door. not a moment later, connor sat near the entryway, shoes off, jacket beside him, sumo already lying across his lap. he patted sumo’s head with the back of his hand, his whole upper body sagging forward with exhaustion. 

“connor,” hank looked down at him as he hung his coat on the rack by the door. connor remained engrossed in coddling sumo, who smiled happily in response. he didn’t move when hank picked up his jacket from the floor or touched his shoulder to get his attention. he kneeled down next to him, shaking him slightly. connor moved limply, but his eyes fluttered open, eyebrows forming a frown.

“connor, hey,” hank frowned. “let’s get you somewhere more comfortable if you’re gonna sleep, yeah?”

connor shook his head, moving to pick himself up off the floor as sumo climbed off him.

“i need to find the repair kit. i think it’s somewhere in the pantry.”

hank wanted to hold him down, but instead helped him up, made sure he could walk to the pantry. as connor peeked into the pantry to find it and pull it out into the living space, hank left for his bedroom, grabbing up the throw blankets thrown across the comforter. he knew connor would feel best on the couch, given the circumstances. he wasn’t sure if connor would need a charge or not, but the blankets and sumo would be enough for now. 

when he returned to the living space, connor had propped the repair kit up onto the table, and sipping on a capri-sun-esque pouch of thirium, perched on the couch. his head bobbed slightly, but watched hank as he set the blankets on the couch, sat down beside him.

“are we gonna go for repairs now, or do you need some sleep?”

“if i sleep, you’ll cook something for yourself?” connor frowned deeply, worry flickering across his face.

“promise,” hank said, patting connor’s knee. connor seemed sated by this, letting hank drape a blanket over his shoulders and lap. connor tucked his legs up under him, arms folded, head bobbing and finally falling against the side of the couch. hank watched his LED switch from yellow to blue, to a fading, pulsing blue.

hank wasn’t sure what he would have for dinner, but had a feeling there was something left over in the fridge he could eat.

 

connor awoke to find hank still next to him. hank had flipped on the tv--that much he could tell from the light that played on his eyelids and the soft murmur of voices. he couldn’t quite pinpoint what it could be exactly, but the room lay quiet and that felt almost a bit comforting. hank seemed almost half asleep himself, perhaps he was fully asleep, connor wasn’t sure. but as he shifted to sit up, hank jolted awake, as did sumo, letting out a startled  _ boof _ in response. connor continued to reach for the last pouch of thirium they had left, until hank noticed his struggle and finally passed it to him.

“you sleep well?” hank asked as he sat back. connor nodded, taking a sip.

“yeah, the sealing agent did an okay job of covering the wound,”  _ sip _ , “but i think my pants are sticking to my legs and i can barely feel my hands.”

the blank, sleepy face that he kept while speaking set hank on edge. connor always had the habit of forgetting to emote when he went into analysis. as he finished his  _ drink _ , he moved to take the blanket off his lap, but hank stopped him. hank pulled it off himself, searching for bloodstains before folding it over the back of the couch.

“enough with you doing any unnecessary moving,” hank sighed. “you think you can get yourself changed and then we can take a look of that leg of yours?”

connor’s face screwed up for a moment, dazed, before he nodded rather slowly. he allowed hank to help him stand, but shuffled the rest of the short distance to the other room. despite feeling physically fine, his senses still zoned, having not completed the full diagnostic of himself, almost as if being awoken in the middle of a sleep cycle, and due to the fact that he had lost blood so rapidly and had hit the ground enough to give a human a well off bruise and some stars. two pints and some he had lost. twenty percent maybe. 

he shook his head. managing to peel the black dpd emblazoned shirt and blue-stained pants from his skin, he rummaged in his portion of the closet for something else he didn’t mind getting blood on. it so happened that there was often some sort of mess on his clothing, be it from coffee, blood, dirt. he considered himself lucky--most of his clothes were old hand-me-downs of hanks, or black. plain shirt. sweatpants two sizes too large, courtesy of nine, who knew nothing about plain-clothes until connor had handed him a high collared sweater.

he rolled the pant leg up the best he could to check the damage to his leg in the standing mirror. where the skin had faded into white around the wound, it had also been stained with a thin blue layer, a clean hole from the front to the back of his left shin. what he deemed most important were his hands, white, unresponsive, bent in on themselves in a jerk reflex. defeated, he wobbled back into the living room.

hank had already begun opening, separating the components of the small, cyberlife repair kit. connor decided to purchase it after a knock to his head caused his LED to go out, but they had to make the trek to the cyberlife store in order to fix it. the kit had two LED biocomponents, two hand replacements, a manual, and a small tube of thirium connor could tell had expired, unfortunately for him. he knew the replacement for his lower leg could be expedited rather quickly after ordering, so there would be no need to visit a physical cyberlife store.

connor made his way to the sofa, shuffled around, sat. he turned to face hank, who, once he had finished compartmentalizing each component in his mind, sighed deeply.

“you got the manual memorized?” he asked connor without looking up.

“parts of it,” connor admitted, “enough to be helpful.”

hank shook his head, words laughing. “good, i don’t want to read.”

as hank motioned for it, connor held out one hand, letting it rest in hank’s palm. connor watched his face as hank studied his broken fingers, eyebrows knitted together. the stress striped apparent on his face and in the reluctance to even consider detaching connor’s hand from the joint of his wrist. connor shifted forward expectantly. 

“there’s no blood flowing in there,” he said, “the soft part on the joint near the side, by the ulna and just under the carpals--”

hank looked up at him. “the what?”

he shook his head. “there’s a place you can press there, like an indent, so you can detach the hand from the rest of the wrist.”

hank turned connor’s hand in his own, thumb running over his wrist until he felt where the white skin caved. he pressed firmly down, felt something under the skin pop free and release, a short, slipping sensation.

“now you can twist it to your right and it’ll free the--” hank twisted to his left in a jerk reflex. connor inhaled sharply in response, feeling the intact nerves of his arm jolt electrically.

“--no,  _ your _ right!” he repeated, feeling the sensation leave him all at once as hank corrected the movement, tugging the hand free from it’s socket, plastic popping free where the thin line around his wrist. with his free hand, hank detached the connecting wires between the wrist and the old hand, pulling the wires free of the tiny clips that held the two ends together.

connor pulled in a long breath, as the pins and needles sensation fled up his arm and vanished. he felt his blood go warm and then inexplicably cold, thirium regulator kicking sharply in to run thirium through his legs and arms and his head. the cool feeling passed after a moment, but left his whole body vibrating slightly, pupils heavily dilated--a mydriatic response caused by the irking feeling of anxiety. human stress responses be damned, he knew nothing would happen. 

as he willed himself to focus on a spot behind hank, hank set his hand on connor’s knee, patting it once, twice, before leaving it there.

“how’re you doin’, kid?” he asked, setting the broken hand on the coffee table, guiding connor’s arm to rest in connor’s lap. connor nodded slowly.

“it doesn’t feel great. i’m fixated on how it feels but also i feel,” he sighed again. “i don’t know.”

“tired?” hank prompted, giving a shrug of his shoulders.

“tired, yeah.”

hank took the new hand in both of his, lifting it with some hesitation out of the soft plastic molding of the case. it had the same soft, almost silicon feel, as the other, the matching silvery-white tone, each smooth pad and jointed lines and bend of metaphorical bone coming together, gentling at the wrist. he took up connor’s arm once again, peering at the wires, trying to figure out how to piece them together. connor’s voice, a slight slurry of consonants, pulled him from his thoughts.

“the sets of, uh, closed wires, they go together in the connector band.” he waved to the bundle of wires that hung loosely from the connecting joint of the wrist. hank followed his motion, setting the hand down on his knee to slowly unravel them. connor brought his arm down in response, layed it parallel on his thigh.

hank separated the cinched wires at the base of the hand and the arm across connor’s lap, taking the ends of those on the hand and twisting each of the four groups of wires together, before pressing them together with those on connor’s arm. he twisted them gently to make sure they held, but applied the clip in tandem. a small sound, almost a hiss of pain, escaped connor. he averted his gaze, but spoke to hank:

“just...the same as you did last time, push in, twist to your right.”

hank wriggled his own fingers, making sure he had the right direction, before pushing the wrist to match the rest of the arm, pressing down on the soft spot again with his thumb, twisted right. there resonated a small click, and connor let his breath out all at once.

“i’m sure you can do the next one without my help?” connor said, hand beginning to reclaim some of its color. he tested the bend of the fingers slowly, moving his wrist and arm in conjunction, rolling it in one smooth motion around. the nod hank gave him showed his uncertainty, eyebrows screwed together as he worked the second hand from its socket. but connor focused instead, again, on the spot across the room from him, letting his mind sift through the scenario he had only left a moment ago.

a 78% chance of survival, his own, a 43% chance of survival, if he took too long or followed markos onto the rooftop. markos’ survival lay consistently in 30% or lower--a number that kept connor both on edge and soothed him. hank’s survival met a similar consistency--96%, on the off chance that markos had returned, connor remained unsure of what variables would stay the same and what would differ. he didn’t want to run another simulation to find out.

“they look better already,”

connor peeled his eyes from the fixed point, blinking away blur, and met hank’s gaze. 

“do they?” connor asked. with both hands shifting back to a normal skin tone it seemed nearly impossible to discern the difference from old and new, but an out of place sensation stuck to him. he flexed his fingers, rolling the wrist, bending each joint, feeling the satisfying pop of the wrist.

“yeah, better than being covered in blue, ya think?”

“yeah,” connor held his hands close to him, an appreciative smile lighting up his face. “thank you, hank.”

“of course, con, anything for my kid, right?”

connor couldn’t help ducking his head, nodding along, folding his arms over each other. even a year later, every emotion felt like a new surge of energy, something strange and offbeat, pulling at the emotional core he’d forgotten he had. hank patted his knee, smiling in return.

“when’s that leg supposed to get in?” he glanced back toward the door. connor’s face twisted in thought--he let out a soft hum.

“in a bit, i believe. soon.”

“let’s hope it’s as easy as the hands.”

hank’s short prayer ended up ringing true.

connor’s new leg attached with better success. the package had luckily contained several thirium pouches, so as connor sipped juice-box equivalents of motor oil, hank was able to detach and reattach the leg, watching the skin turn from white back to the same color as the thigh above, pulled back down the rolled pant leg. connor’s face was still a waxy color, and as he finished the pouch, he shivered reflexively. 

“feeling okay?”

“fine,” connor said. “i’ll have to settle into the hands and the leg, it just feels strange.” he pushed his hands into the pocket of his sweater, settling deeper into the corner of the couch, blanket still draped around him. the sat in silence for several moments, both he and hank tuning back into the television. a late night, post-news game show was playing, one neither of them were particularly interested in, as it involved more luck than mental skill. hank was always one to test his learned knowledge with fast games, and connor liked to keep his mouth shut during those, but puzzle games always had connor bent over quizzically, drawing in the air and figuring out the patterns.

after a consuming moment of numbing game show jabber, hank motioned to him, beckoning him over. connor shuffled his way to the other side of the couch where he fell, solid, knees tucked up, against hank’s side. his face squished against hank’s shoulder, even as hank moved to drape one arm around connor. 

“you know--” hank began abruptly, pausing, continuing as connor glanced up at him. “did i ever tell you how much you remind me of cole?” he shook his head. “it’s like i got a second chance i don’t deserve.”

“you have,” connor smiled widely, fond memories flooding his thoughts. “and you do deserve it, hank. you do,” he added, voice going soft. he curled closer, if it were possible, trying to show his appreciation from that alone. hank couldn’t resist laughing, squeezing connor’s shoulder in acknowledgement.

it was then that sumo protested, a long, low whine, before leaping onto the other side of the couch, promptly plopping his head against connor’s leg. connor patted his head haphazardly, and hank did the same to him, ruffling his hair.

“hey, i think we’ve still got two or three episodes of that  _ wire _ show left.” hank said. “you wanna finish that before we call it a night?”

“but i already solved it,” connor replied sleepily, screwing his eyes shut.  _ cooling down _ his system told him, as a slow roll of frosty thirium began to flood his torso and new limbs. 

“yeah, but i haven’t, and you won’t tell me.”

“i don’t want to “spoil” it, as you say.” connor made air quotes with one hand as he spoke, before shoving it back in his sweatshirt pocket. hank shook his head, but queued up the show anyway. he knew connor would push himself into stasis to calibrate before the show was even halfway finished, but knew that he himself wouldn’t fall asleep for quite a bit, and not outside his bed.

the intro sequence ran and the show began, with connor mumbling under his breath for half of the show before stopping, sinking into sleep. his first and second predictions turned out to be correct, but hank stopped the show, feeling his eyelids grow heavy, before he could confirm the third. 

he pulled connor up and over and into his arms, his head lolling to one side, arms folded across his chest. the kid was heavy for being made of plastic and blue goo, but he was able to carry him to the bedside and set him down with a huff. he adjusted the blanket around him, making sure it wouldn’t trap him if he woke up suddenly, before sprawling out on his own side, sumo cluttered at their feet, the clock reading 10:41 pm.

**Author's Note:**

> aye yo bruh check out my [soundcloud](https://www.twitter.com/s0fthope).  
> i hope you enjoyed!


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